


How to Steal Some Art and Hearts

by SpraceJunkie



Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Crutchie is a supergenius because I love him, Davey is an FBI agent, Jack is a cocky little shit and also, Jack is an art forger/thief, M/M, Specs/Romeo is just mentioned so far but they'll be bigger later I promise, Spot and Race are fences and Spot is also an author, and Spot is also an author, because he's a petty little shithead, who likes causing drama, who writes books based on true stories of dumb criminals he's worked with
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2019-09-07 18:54:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16859497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpraceJunkie/pseuds/SpraceJunkie
Summary: That title is so dumb blease tell me something better to call this!A little criminal/investigator AU that's really not so little since this is the first chapter and it's over 5000 words long!Jack Kelly is the best in the business, and his business is art forgery and theft. When David Jacobs, the lead investigator of the case against him, actually hires him to help find another art criminal, things get interesting and gay, because of course they do!





	1. Chapter 1

It was the most frustrating case Davey had ever worked, and he’d worked many.

Art forgeries so convincing they had no idea when the switch had been made. No traces of the originals in the normal circles of art collectors or anywhere on the black market.

Two suspects, both of whom appeared to be completely clean.

Jack knew because he was one of them.

Davey thought out loud a lot when he was interrogating him.

“Listen, Dave, I’m losing money here.”

“You don’t make money,” Davey snapped.

“I do commissions. I’m in the middle of one that I need to finish this week if I want the full paycheck. Can I go now?”

“No. This is an ongoing investigation.”

“And you have absolutely no evidence of me doing anything wrong and I’ve already been here for six hours.”

Jack was pretty used to this room. He was called in at least every couple of months when they found one of his forgeries in whatever gallery or museum he’d left them in. Not they had any proof that they were his, of course. He was too good of an artist and too good of a criminal for that.

“You are the only person who had the means and opportunity to pull it off.”

“And as you already so eloquently pointed out, you have no evidence connecting me to this missing painting. I have no idea what you’re on about; I didn’t do it.”

He had done it.

An original Monet, the pride of a one Mr. Adateneri’s gallery collection, stolen and sold for a nice even sixty million, distributed to the usual places through the usual channels, the frame filled with a Jack Kelly reproduction and going undiscovered for five years, four months and twenty days.

A personal record, although the others from the same batch were catching up. One in a museum a few hours upstate, a Picasso, which he’d swapped a month after the Monet looked like it was in line to break the record again.

The originals were all hanging in a private basement gallery somewhere in Europe.

That had been his best commission as of yet.

Jack leaned back in his chair, watching Davey carefully.

He was a good investigator.

Jack had been actively stealing and forging art for ten years and Davey was the only FBI agent of the several he knew had been working on the cases to connect the dots between different missing paintings and to draw that line back to Jack.

Jack was a better criminal, though. It was easier to be a good criminal than a good investigator. All he had to do was pick jobs carefully and do them even more carefully.

He painted them in his apartment, same place he painted all his original work.

His connections got him the old canvases, ink, paint, whatever he needed to forge an old painting. His clients were very rich and just as discreet.

Davey knew all of that, but couldn’t prove any of it, which was why he was sitting across from Jack asking the same questions he always did.

Getting just as annoyed at Jack’s nonchalance as he always did.

“Put the chair back on the floor, Kelly.”

“I’m just getting comfy,” Jack grinned, enjoying the way Davey was turning slightly red and huffing the air out of his nose. “Since you’re so determined to keep me here until I die.”

“You’re here until you give me something to go on. Where were you on April 27?”

“Hmm, seeing as how that was five months ago, I don’t recall. Somewhere in New York City, probably.”

“Let me give you the answer, then. You were at the gallery where this painting-” Davey tapped the laminated picture he’d set in front of Jack. “Is missing from.”

They used a picture of his reproduction, actually. Jack could the evidence tag in the photo. Obviously, they had no idea when he’d actually stolen the painting, since they couldn’t even use a photo of the real thing.

“Saturday, April 27. The last time the painting was authenticated until four days ago, when it was confirmed to be a forgery by two separate experts. It was authenticated in the morning, you were there that night for a party you were invited to because one of your originals was being shown in the gallery.”

“Well if you knew all that already, why did you even ask me?”

“To see if you would lie, which you did.”

“I mean, no I didn’t. I genuinely have no memory of that party. I go to a lot of them.”

“Oh really?”

“I know you don’t acknowledge it as a real job, but being an artist gets me connections. People like my work, Dave, and when people rich enough like my work, I get to go to fancy parties. Art gallery parties? Pretty low down there on the list of memorable parties. Somerton mansion parties on the other hand? Now those are some crazy good parties. I have never in my life tasted better sushi than their chef makes.”

“You have absolutely no memory of attending a party at Adateneri Gallery on April 27?”

“Nah.”

He had a vague memory of it, mostly because he’d only gone to check on his forgery.

He hadn’t known it had passed an authentication. It was pretty hard to keep a satisfied smile off his face when he found that out.

“August ninth.” 

Jack groaned at that one.

“We’ve been over this one over and over again, Davey, I have no idea what happened to your stupid Renoir. I hate Renoir. He’s all “ooh, pretty ladies but impressionistic that makes me cool, right?” I can’t stand him. I haven’t painted anything by him since college.”

“But you’ve painted things by other artists.”

“We’ve been down this road, too. Yes, I’ve done reproductions before. I take whatever commissions I can get, and people like to have an actual copy of Starry Night in their sky-high office overlooking Manhattan. I gave you my list of clients and you verified all of those reproductions as signed by me, made by me. Reproductions are completely legal as long as they’re not pretending to be real, which none of mine are. They are all signed, done on modern canvasses with modern paint, and they’re all completely legal.”

“And very good.”

“I’m an artist, what do you want? Bad reproductions? Bad work? Bad artwork makes Jack a hungry boy, and I like being not hungry.”

“September 12 of last year.”

“Didn’t do that one either. Listen, Dave, it’s nine at night on a Thursday, I have a painting I have to be done with by Tuesday, and I’m sleepy. Can I go now?”

Davey sighed and pulled the photos and paper back towards him, slipping them back inside his folder.

“Fine.” 

Jack stood up and stretched.

“Thank you and goodnight, Agent Jacobs. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”

“I’m sure.”

He didn’t see Davey again for another month.

“Jack Kelly.”

“Visiting me in my home. How forward of you, Agent Jacobs,” Jack had learned pretty early on that flirting with Davey was a good way to get him a very manageable combination of flustered and frustrated.

“Shut up.”

“Oh, but you’re so cute when you blush.”

“I am not blushing!”

“The red tint on your face says otherwise.” Jack leaned on his doorframe, smirking. “And I mean, if you’re here because you want to hook up I’m all for that, God knows you’re pretty cute, but if you’re here to search my apartment you’re gonna need a good reason. Or a warrant, either or would be fine.”

“And if I have both?”

“Forgive me for not inviting you in until you prove at least one of them. Since you have been trying to arrest me for, you know, a couple years now.” Davey sighed.

“I don’t have a warrant.” He admitted. “But I do have a good reason.”

“And that is?” Jack was good at reading people. Expressions and body language were both things he worked with in his art, and so he’d spent years and years watching people carefully to pick up the subtle things to make his portraits more realistic. The slightest tilt of the head that showed uncertainty, the tension in somebody’s shoulders that could show confidence if paired with the right quirk of the lips or fear if paired with the right shape of the eyebrows. All very subtle, but they told the people looking at the drawing or painting a lot, even if they didn’t realize it. They were why a person in a painting felt sad rather than just looking like their face was wet, or why the winner of a painted fight could exude confidence even when it was a still image.

None of Davey’s cues were that subtle right now. Sometimes they were. In actual interrogations, he was one of the better people at hiding his emotions. He tried very hard and often succeeded in making it look like he was calm, cool and collected. Right now, though, every cue for frustration, anger, all the emotions he usually hid from Jack but Jack knew he caused were showing through very, very clearly.

His face was red, but he clearly wasn’t embarrassed anymore, his breathing had shifted, he was holding himself physically tighter. He was capital M mad about whatever he was going to say, and it took several tries, several breaths, to get him to finally force it out.

“We need your help,” He finally forced out, and if Jack had wanted to paint his face at that exact moment, he would have had to include the tension in his jaw that made it look like he was clenching his teeth, even if he wasn’t, really, and the way he pushed his shoulders back like that would make him feel more comfortable.

Jack let a wide grin slowly spread across his face, thoroughly enjoying how mad Davey was to have to come to him for help.

“My help? Now, what on Earth could a smart, tough FBI agent like yourself need the help of a suspected con artist like me for?”

“Let me in, and I’ll show you.”

“Now, see, the thing is, I’ve been dealing with you for a long, long time now, Dave. Our two year anniversary is next week, in fact. Remember that interrogation? The point is, I know how you work. I let you in, anything in plain sight you wanna take, you take. I lose things I paid good money for, you get more of my stuff to call evidence, and all ‘cause I’m dumb enough to invite you inside. Uh-uh. You wanna talk to me, we’re not doing it in my apartment. I’ll talk, but we’re going someplace else.”

“And where would you suggest?” It really was fun to watch him seethe. He was really, really mad to be asking Jack for help.

“There’s a cafe right in the bottom of this building. I’d avoid the food; I doubt their kitchen is too clean, but the coffee is boiled and better than nothing.” Jack pulled his keys off the hook next to his door and stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind him and not letting his grin fade.

Davey followed him into the cafe, barely concealing his disgust at the small, greasy place, and didn’t order anything. He just watched the barista smile and wink at Jack while bringing his drink.

“So. You need my help,” Jack prompted, sipping his coffee and watching Davey apparently try to keep as much of himself as possible from touching anything.

“Yes,” Davey said reluctantly.

“With what?”

“You know the art world.”

“Yeah.”

“You work in every circle of it. Private collectors, galleries, there’s no way you don't at least know the more...illegal side of things.”

“Can’t prove anything,” Jack said cheerfully, knowing if they could, he’d have been arrested, not having coffee with an FBI agent.

“That doesn’t mean you don’t know anything. People can know things without doing them. The point is, you know every corner of the art world.”

“I suppose.”

“We have a case. Bigger than the one you’re involved with.”

“The one you think I’m involved with. I haven’t done anything, Dave, and therefore you can’t deal in absolutes like that.”

“Whatever. The case you’re allegedly involved with is nothing compared with this one. They… _we_ want to hire you as a consultant. For this case only.”

“So the bossmen finally realized I have potential, huh? What’s the case?”

It wasn’t bigger than his, he knew it for a fact. His portfolio of forgeries was bigger than anybody else’s portfolio of any kind of art related crime. Nobody else had the skill and connections Jack had. Maybe he was cocky about it, but it was deserved. His forgeries were better than anyone’s, and his list of crimes was longer.

“I’m not allowed to say,” Davey said. “You don’t have anywhere close to enough security clearance.”

“How am I supposed to help solve it if I don’t get to know what it is?”

“If you agree, you’ll be given information on a need to know basis to do what you need to do.”

Jack took another drink, thinking.

“So. You want me, the guy you’ve been borderline harassing for two years over crimes I didn’t commit to help you solve a crime I don’t even get to know anything about. And I’m the top choice why? Aren’t there people actually trained to do what you want me to do?”

“We need somebody who’d actually part of the art world. Who already knows people and can insert themself into whatever situation we need them without getting anybody suspicious.”

“So you want to use me.”

“Yes.” 

Jack was surprised that Davey admitted it so easily.

This whole thing was intriguing. They wanted to hire him. The FBI wanted to hire him to solve some kind of art related crime. It would be fun. It’d likely take out his competition, whoever they were, that was apparently flooding the market with enough of whatever they were producing to get their case marked as bigger than Jack’s.

“Sounds like fun. Do I get paid hourly?”

“What...that’s it?”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s all it took to convince you to say yes?”

“Sure,” Jack finished his coffee with one last big drink and grinned at Davey. “Do I get paid hourly? And ooh, do I get a badge?”

“You’ll get paid if you help us solve the case. And no.”

“Aw. Badges are cool. Now, is that all?”

“You’ll help us?”

“Yeah, I already said, it sounds like fun.”

“Then come to my office tomorrow morning at nine. The main entrance of the building, not where you usually come in.”

“That’s a change. Not being treated like a criminal anymore. And if that’s all, I have to deliver a commission in two hours and I still need to wrap the painting.” Jack stood up, bringing his mug back up to the counter. “So I bid you adieu until tomorrow morning, Agent Jacobs, have a nice night.” Jack grinned at him one more time over his shoulder before stepping into the lobby to go back up to his apartment. He really did have a commission to deliver.

A stunning reproduction of a lesser-known Van Gogh, perfectly legally done on modern canvas with modern paint to be hung in some CEO’s office, Jack’s signature there but hidden by the frame, Vincent’s nowhere to be seen.

He had to be careful about things like that. Any slip-ups in his legal work could easily lead to the downfall of his illegal side business.

When he got home from the delivery, he promptly dug out the phone he used for the more illegal side of things and hit his number one speed-dial.

“Hey, Crutch,” He said when it picked up. “Guess who just got hired by the FBI?”

“Al Gore,” Crutchie said, and Jack could hear him typing in the background.

“Me,” Jack said, and the typing stopped.

“No shit?”

“No shit,” Jack confirmed. “Agent David fucking Jacobs just showed up at my apartment and hired me as a consultant on some kind of art case he wouldn’t tell me about ‘cause I’m not trustworthy enough.”

“So they don’t suspect you anymore.”

“Oh, he still does, they just know they can’t prove anything. But he said whatever it is is bigger than me. Meaning I should know about it anyway, and if I don’t you should.” The typing started again, much faster now.

“There hasn’t been anything on Tyler yet.”

“Nah, and he’s chicken. He’ll quit as soon as there is.”

“True true. They caught Evans last year...no traffic through my servers on anyone else right now,” Jack could hear the frown in Crutchie’s voice. He hated not having all the information all the time. “You’re the biggest,” He said. “Nobody has more out there than you, nobody even comes close. Especially in chatter.”

“I know, that’s what I was thinking.”

“Did he come inside?” Crutchie asked.

“Nah. I’ve got the first draft going for the Dali in the corner. Can’t risk that one.”

“Mm. I’ll keep a lookout for whatever this case is.”

“I’ll let you know when I get more.”

“Thanks, Jacky.”

“And thank you, Crutch.”

It was very weird to enter the FBI building by the main entrance the next morning, and to introduce himself at the main desk and be sent up to Davey’s office, instead of being escorted to an interrogation room.

Davey didn’t exactly look happy to see him, either. He just gestured to a chair across the desk and slid a file folder across the desk to Jack without saying a word.

Jack opened it and flipped through to the pictures.

“You aren’t going to read it?”

“My dyslexia is so bad it would take me two hours to read this,” Jack said, studying the photos. They weren’t really good reproductions. The Monet, especially, had sloppy brush strokes and poor color choice. No wonder whoever it was was being figured out.

“Recognize it?”

“A Monet bridge,” Jack said, holding the picture closer to his face. “It...kinda sucks.”

“It was hanging for at least a month,” Davey sounded offended. “And you can tell it’s fake that fast?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be in the file if it were real, would it? And anyway, it’s not a bad reproduction, but it’s a terrible forgery. To hang in a dentist’s office? Sure. A museum? No way. The paint is visibly wrong, even in a photo, and Monet has very specific techniques that are...nonexistent here?” Jack forced himself to stop talking before he went into any more detail, worried he’d already said so much. “I’ll bet it’s even worse in person,” He finally said, setting that picture down and lifting the next, an equally bad copy of a Renoir. The one Jack had been accused of forging that he actually hadn’t done. “And you really thought I did this? This is horrible, and I’m offended.” Everything that was wrong with the Monet was even more wrong with the Renoir, and it genuinely did kind of offend him that they’d thought Jack had done it.

“Do you know who did?”

“No,” Jack moved through the stack, examining every picture in the file. They were all equally bad, but in the same way. Almost definitely all done by the same person.

“Can you find out?”

“Maybe,” Jack closed the file. “With time and resources.”

“How much?”

“Depends. Like you said, I could get into the...more illegal side of things. They could get me answers in a few weeks. Or I could just start asking around in my circles. Somebody will know something.”

“I don’t want to know anything about how you get the information.”

“Meaning you want me to take the fast way.”

“I want to solve the case.”

“I need these pictures then. The whole file, if you want me to read it.”

“That’s your copy.”

“And what are my rules?”

“What?”

“I know you want me to go fast. And you want plausible deniability when it comes to my methods. But you have to have rules.”

“I’m required to tell you not to break the law. Don’t do anything that’ll get anyone hurt. Any information you get needs to be reported directly to me.”

Those were very loose guidelines. So loose it felt like Davey really wanted Jack to do whatever he had to do to figure this out.

Which meant he’d be sending copies of this file to Crutchie, and probably the pictures to Race, to see if he’d had anything to do with the fencing of the originals, and possibly to a couple other contacts to see if they had anything useful to add. All the channels he’d use to get a job and fence a painting. Somebody in those circles would know, or else they’d know somebody who did.

He wanted answers for himself, anyway. Whoever this was had a bigger reputation in the FBI than Jack himself, and while it wasn’t exactly ideal that the FBI knew about him at all, it was a point of pride that he was their biggest art crime case. If this person had surpassed him, they had to have done an incredible amount of work, and for however bad their art was, they had to be smart, because they hadn’t been caught.

When he looked up again, Davey was doing something on his computer, not really paying attention to Jack anymore. Jack leaned back in his chair, looking around him. He’d never been in Davey’s office before, and it really did reveal more about him. In his pencil cup, there was a little pride flag sticking out, which confirmed what Jack had already been pretty sure about. There were two framed pictures, one of him with two people who looked like they were probably his siblings, and one of a cat sticking its face into the camera. A little succulent in the window, his fancy degrees hanging on the wall, and neat stacks of work carefully sorted into piles. Everything had its place and everything was in its place.

“What?” Davey said defensively, startling Jack out of his observations.

“What?”

“You’re staring?”

“I’ve never been in here before. Just looking around,” Jack shrugged. “Very neat.” He commented. Davey didn’t respond. “Do you want something else or can I go?”

“Go?”

“If you want answers I can’t sit in here for the rest of my life. And I have work to do at home.”

“Fine. Go.” 

Jack stood and stretched, picking up the file and sliding all the pictures back inside. 

“As soon as you have anything, you call me.”

“Obviously,” Jack said easily, stepping out of Davey’s office and making his way back outside. As soon as he was, he called Crutchie.

“Twice in two days, I feel so loved,” Crutchie said when he picked up.

“You know you are,” Jack said. “I have in my hands right now an official FBI case file with details and evidence photos of the case they hired me for. I’m also only a few blocks from you, if you wanted an exclusive sneak preview before I scan it and send copies to everyone.”

“Yes, please.”

“You aren’t busy?”

“Am I ever? Race is here too, anyway.”

“He is?”

“Spot is over in Paris or someplace like that and he was bored, so he baked too much and showed up at my place with a lot of cannoli. Like...a lot.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Sweet.”

Crutchie lived in an apartment even messier and busier than Jack’s studio apartment. He was probably the absolute smartest person Jack had met in his life, and he made his living as an off-site IT guy for some big company. Well, according to his tax returns, that’s what he did. Jack was willing to bet his “just for fun” side job of running tech support for some of the more illegal businesses in the city, including Jack’s, made up more of his actual income. He had practically an entire wall in his living room covered in computer monitors, all running different things. When Jack had asked how on Earth his apartment building’s wifi could support that many things happening at once, Crutchie had grinned and informed him that anyone could have high-speed wifi if they were willing to hack for it.

Crutchie wasn’t the one who opened the door this time, though, instead, Race instantly hugged Jack around the next and dragged him inside, practically force feeding him a cannoli.

“Jacky! Turning fed on us, huh? Insider information is sexy!”

“Hi, Racer, what’s up?”

“Spot’s in Europe doing something and I’m bored.”

“Hey, Jack,” Crutchie said from his seat across the room. “Race was just dramatically reenacting how you met. Is it true you kissed him?”

“Oh yeah. Needed to get away from an ex and he was standing there.”

“That was only the first time we met in person. I was already his fence, we just didn’t know it,” Race grinned. “Who cares about that now? I wanna see this classified FBI file.” Jack held the file out, handing it to Crutchie first, who immediately pulled the pictures out.

“I haven’t seen these before.” He said thoughtfully, spinning his chair to his wall of computers and starting some kind of search. “At least not the forgeries. They aren’t great, are they?”

“They’re terrible. And the second one, that Renoir? They though I did that.”

“An insult to your talents,” Race said, skimming the written part. “And they think all of these were done over the last two months. Seven paintings stolen and replaced.”

“That’s why they think it’s worse than me. They’re all recent.”

“They never have any idea of what timelines really are,” Crutchie said. “They think that Money they just found from you is recent, and it’s what five years old?”

“Over that now. But these are all new. At least a couple of them I’ve seen recently and they didn’t look like that. I would have noticed. What else does it say?”

“You haven’t read it?”

“You know I can’t fucking read, Race, what else does it say?”

“It’s pretty generic. Just a summary of what happened, pretty much. No good juicy details.” Race said. “Missing paintings, no suspects, blah blah blah. No evidence, all discovered over the last few months...our good friend Agent Jacobs is the one who recommended you. Bet this wasn’t supposed to be in your file.”  
“What is it?”

“A...referral form? It just says that Agent David Jacobs suggested you as a consultant because of your inside knowledge of the art world and...working relationship? Christ, he calls interrogating you once a month a working relationship?”

“Probably he needed something better to say to his bosses than “hey this dude is my prime suspect on a case I’ve been working for two years but I bet he can track down art thieves faster than us!” That probably wouldn’t go over very well,” Crutchie said. “Also, they haven’t made it public knowledge. I got the whole file off the FBI database, though. They know a lot more than they’re telling you.”

“I know that,” Jack said. “He told me I don’t have security clearance. What else do they know?”

“A few suspects, a couple more details. It’s almost like they’re testing you out. You should bring them their own list of suspects.”

“Do I agree with their list of suspects?”

“They have Tyler. That’s not his work, though, too messy. They mention Evans, but he’s already caught, and his work is bad in a different way than this anyway, so it’s not him. Then a couple names I don’t know, but I’ll look into them for you. The paint is a homemade blend, so I can check that stuff, too. Sometimes buying pigments and stuff leaves traces I can track.”

“They made the paint and it still looks that bad?” Jack said.

“I wouldn’t sell these,” Race commented, examining the pictures. “Even I couldn’t sweet talk somebody into thinking those were real.”

“They really aren’t great,” Crutchie agreed. “Want me to print copies of the whole file?”

“Sure,” Jack said, and Crutchie started printing again, collecting three copies of the file and passing one to Jack and one to Race, setting one aside for himself.

“How many others do you want?”

“Uhh...one for Specs and Rome, one for Finch...one for Itey, he knows everyone. So three, I think.”

Crutchie nodded and printed three more.

“The Dali job is in two weeks, yeah?” Race changed the subject.

“Yeah. I just started painting it, finished the drawing last night. Alby is doing the replacement in two Tuesdays, and you and Spot are fencing it, yeah?”

“That’s one of the things Spot is doing in Europe. Pretty sure he’s also doing a book tour?”

“How do you not know what your husband is doing in Europe?”

“I know the stuff that pertains to us! But I never know when he’s doing a book tour. Sometimes he gets home and I think he was just selling something and he’s like “oh by the way here’s a signed picture of some famous person who bought my book” and I realize it was actually a book tour that just happened to stop where we needed to sell.”

“When did his last book come out?”

“A month ago,” Crutchie asked.

“It’s definitely a book tour, then. No way he’d be in Europe a month after a book came out without touring. What was it about?”

“It was a crime thriller that was literally just what went down between Evans and Kayla last year except where Kayla won and with all the names changed. He thought it’d be funny.”

“Did he send a copy to Evans?” Crutchie asked, amused.

“Oh, yeah,” Race grinned. “We got a very nice letter detailing exactly what Evans thought about the book, chapter by chapter, and threatened to tell the cops that Spot had insider information because he’s a fence, except he won’t, because me and Spot keep very detailed records and could easily get his sentence extended for years with the information we have, and we’d get a deal for that.”

“I’ll keep that in mind if I ever get caught,” Jack said. “You’d sell me out in a heartbeat.”

“It’s a dog-eat-dog world, Jacky, we’ll do what we gotta to survive. But I promise I’d feel bad doing it,” Race grinned at him, and Crutchie laughed.

“I’ll protect you,” He said to Jack. “I can delete all evidence of your existence if you need me to.”

“I think I’m good there,” Jack said, also laughing. “Since I haven’t been caught and don’t plan on it, I think we can all stay friends and stay out of situations that Spot can write a book about.”

“Hey, it’s an honor to be interesting enough for Spotty to write about you,” Race said. “Anyone should be proud.”

“Unless you’re Evans, and somebody is making probably millions and earning a spot on the New York Times bestseller list for a book that’s pretty much a what if you sucked even more than you already do story.”

“Even then, Spot made the story a lot more interesting than that. Evans in the book had a personality beyond being an entitled art criminal with a Napoleon complex over his small dick.” Jack and Crutchie both laughed at that description of Evans, and the conversation shifted into a lighthearted joking about other people in their shared circles who they didn’t like for one reason or another.

By the time Jack finally left to go home, he’d eaten probably thirty cannoli, and his face almost hurt from laughing and smiling so much. Crutchie promised to send him any information he found, and Race promised to make sure Spot both prepped the client for the Dali job and put out feelers for the missing paintings.

He was officially working for the FBI now, and even though his methods were definitely more illegal than most probably used by the agency itself, he felt the part with his manila file folder full of details and the investigation rolling.


	2. Chapter 2

Working for the FBI was pretty fun. For one, he knew where Davey was at all times. He could easily plan his other activities around when Davey would be around. The Dali job went off even smoother than jobs usually did, with Albert getting in and out of the museum the original had been hanging in without a single hiccup and Spot getting the real painting to the new owner in three days.

His offshore bank account got a nice boost, too.

Rich Europeans. Horrible people, but they paid well.

It was always a rush to visit the site of a heist for the first time after his forgery was hung up, and it was even more of a rush this time.

Considering his forgery was hanging the not only the same museum, but the same room as the latest forgery he was helping to investigate.

He gorgeous, meticulously studied and painted Salvador Dali, done on period-appropriate canvas with paint he’d made himself out of period-appropriate pigments was hanging on the wall in the original frame, and two paintings away was a very terrible forgery of a Degas.

His painting was beautiful. His favorite thing about Dali was how smooth everything looked, like he’d painted with plastic, and Jack had managed to capture that very well, if he did say so himself.

Nobody had noticed. They never did this fast, and it’d only been two weeks, but still. Watching crowds of people filter past his painting, talking about Salvador Dali like his hands had made it when in reality it was Jack...to be completely honest, that was really the appeal of doing forgeries now.

After all, he had enough money in his secret accounts to buy a new identity and disappear if he wanted to, and his original work and legal reproductions kept him fed, clothed, and in an apartment. He’d started forging to survive as an artist in New York, and he didn’t really have to do it. But for some reason, recognition wasn’t as exciting as the exact opposite. Probably it was the part of him that just desperately wanted to be the best. None of his originals were hanging in a museum, but by God, he could copy a painting well enough nobody even realized it wasn’t by the artist whose name was on the plaque.

So he kept doing it, even though he didn’t really _need_ to. And he liked to spend a day hanging out, doing his thing in the museum his forgeries ended up in, sketching things to draw and paint later, watching people fall for the crime.

Now he was distracted, though.

By the quite bad Degas forgery hanging two frames away.

And he knew if he didn’t call Davey, he’d probably be accused of helping, and they’d probably catch his forgery much faster than he wanted.

“Hey, Davey?”

“Yes, Mr. Kelly?”

“I’m at Nightengale Museum. About forty minutes outside the city? You know it?”

“Yes.”

“Pretty sure I just found another forgery by our guy. A Degas. It looks the same as the other ones.”

“What?”

“There’s a Degas here. It’s definitely fake. I come here all the time ‘cause it’s a nice little museum and the last time I was here, they’d just gotten Dancers in Pink and it was real, and that was just a couple months ago. It’s definitely different from last time I was here, and it’s just as bad as the other ones.” 

Jack heard Davey sigh.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. I mean I guess I can’t say definitively who did it? Since we don’t know and I don’t have proof it’s by the same person, but it looks very similar.”

“Fine. I’ll be there in a half hour. Stay put, and don’t bother anyone,” Davey hung up before Jack could say anything in response, so he sat down on the bench he’d been planning on sitting on anyway and pulled out his sketchbook. Galleries and museums were great places for people watching and inspiration.

While he waited, his pages filled up with faces and poses taken from the people around him.

“Working on your next great forgery?” Davey’s dry voice surprised him, making him cut a line through the face he was working on.

“Christ, Dave, warn a guy,” He frowned and scrubbed the pencil marks away. “It’s that one. See it?”

“I see a painting,” Davey said, sitting down next to Jack and looking towards the Degas.

“Come here,” Jack sighed, pulling him right away and dragging him towards the painting. “This is not Dancers in Pink,” He said. “Degas is...smooth...and fluffy. You don’t see it? This is all wrong.”

“I’m clearly not as cultured in art as you,” Davey said, studying the painting. “It looks like every other painting here to me.” Jack sighed again.

“It’s bad, Davey. Degas is one of the best impressionist painters out there, in my books, anyway. That’s a debate I don’t wanna get into, but whatever. This painting is wrong, Davey, the tutus are wrong, the girls in the back are wrong, the bodies are completely wrong. In the real one, the bodies are so clear and the tutus are so fluffy...and the background is obviously different in this one. The brush strokes are terrible. Look at the tutus, Dave, you can see every single brush stroke! Degas would never.” Jack had to restrain himself from reaching out to touch the painting to emphasize his point. “It’s a terrible reproduction.” Davey was frowning thoughtfully, leaning closer.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“When’s the last time you saw this painting?”

“Last time I was here was like a month ago, and they’d just gotten this from some other museum. It was real then. I think I have a picture, actually, hang on.”

“Why do you have a picture?”

“Because I like to paint pretty things, Davey, and this painting is gorgeous. Well, this one isn’t, but the actual one is. So I took a picture so I’d remember to paint it later. Pretty sure I sold it to my eye doctor, actually. Anyway...see?” Jack zoomed in on his picture to show Davey what the tutus were supposed to look like.

The difference was incredibly obvious to him, even in the shitty iPhone picture.

Degas had made the tutus look like they were floating, he’d blended his shadows and main colors into one pretty puddle of pink fluff.

The fake made them look like they were supported by cardboard, the shadows weren’t even done in the right shade of pink.

“Don’t you see it?”

“I guess,” Davey said, looking between the phone and the painting hanging on the wall.

“Call an authenticator, they’ll say the exact same things I just did,”

“Is there a problem, Mr. Kelly?” A manager Jack knew by sight from his fairly frequent visits approached them. Jack glanced at Davey, noticing the slight annoyance that crossed his face when it was Jack who got the attention.

“We’re not sure,” Davey said, as Jack nodded.

“I am. Something happened to Dancers in Pink, because this isn’t it. Trust me, Dave,” 

Davey still didn’t look convinced.

The manager frowned, looking closer at the painting.

“You’re right,” He said. “It...it must be in the back.”

“Check that, please,” Davey said, snapping from vaguely annoyed at Jack to business mode instantly.

“Oh, so you believe him instantly, but not me.”

“He actually knows what he’s talking about.”

“So do I!” Jack shook his head.

“Excuse me, but who are you?” The manager asked. “I don’t mean to be rude.” He apologized instantly when Davey glared at him.

“Special Agent David Jacobs. Find me the real painting, no,” Davey flashed his badge, and the manager paled, nodding and hurrying away to the back.

“You didn’t have to scare him half to death,” Jack commented. “The painting isn’t getting any more stolen.”

“He said it was in the back.”

“Would you admit a ten million dollar painting your museum just got a couple months ago was stolen and replaced with a noticeable fake?”

“It really isn’t that noticeable,” Davey insisted.

“To you. How the hell did you end up specializing in art crime when you can’t spot a fake?”

“I can too!”

“This is one of the worst I’ve seen, and you didn’t even believe me when I pointed it out.”

“And you’ve seen many?”

“You’ve thrown many in my face right alongside accusations of me being the forger, so yeah, I’ve seen plenty.”

“Mr. Kelly, Agent Jacobs, Mr. Mikaels wants to speak to both of you,” The manager appeared again, looking decidedly more nervous than he had before.

“Why does he put you first?” Davey muttered, clearly not happy that the tables had turned and Jack was the one in charge now.

“Because I’m an artist who he respects, and you’re an agent who yelled at him five minutes ago,” Jack said. “I have clout in the art community, isn’t that why you hired me?”

While Davey had spoken quietly, Jack didn’t bother. He was having too much fun having the upper hand here to care, and he saw the manager smile a little.

Mr. Mikaels, the curator, looked even more nervous than the manager, and his computer was showing surveillance footage from the gallery the fake Degas and Jack’s Dali were hanging in, timestamped a just under two weeks ago. Two days after the Dali was swapped.

Crutchie had gotten into the security system somehow and wiped any evidence of Albert making the swap, but Jack’s stomach still swooped with anxiety at the sight of the footage.

It was black and white, but relatively high quality, and while Davey started talking to Mr. Mikaels, Jack focused on the footage. It was looping the same sped-up night over and over, he noticed, and that probably meant it was the night the Degas was stolen, or at least the night they thought it was stolen. He didn’t immediately see anything going on in it, other than the security guard bustling through every once in a while.

Then there was a flicker across the screen, not really unlike the normal static stripes that came across the screen once in a while, and then Jack squinted at the screen, trying to see the Degas frame better. Something had changed, but he wasn’t sure what. It was just enough of a change that he could almost feel it, that annoying little itch he got when he couldn’t place what he was seeing.

The footage looped again, and he stared at the Degas frame, trying to catch what changed and when.

There was the static line, at about three am, and then it was different. Then it looped, the static line at about three am, and it was different. Again and again.

Davey and Mr. Mikaels were talking about something, but Jack couldn’t even try to focus, not with that annoying little itch bothering him.

Three am static, something changed, loop, three am static, something changed, loop, over and over again.

It was the most infuriating game of spot the difference Jack had ever played, and he was good at those games. The cloud was over to the left, the tree is missing a branch, the kid’s sweater is missing a stripe...the frame was upside down.

“Got it,” Jack said, and the conversation stopped.

“Excuse me?” Davey said, turning towards him.

“It happened on October first, three am. Right on the screen,” Jack gestured to the screen, and Mr. Mikaels shook his head.

“I was merely reviewing all the tapes since we got the painting. Nothing happened that night.”

“Yes, it did. At three am. Right…” Jack waited for the static flash to run down the screen again. “There.”

“I saw nothing.”

“It’s like that scene in...The Incredibles? Right? When the kid runs so fast it just looks like the camera shakes but really he put a tack on the teacher’s chair? Watch the frame. It flips.” Jack said, watching carefully again. “There. See?”

“I can’t say I did, no,” Davey said. Jack could tell neither of them had seen what he did, even thought it seemed obvious now that he’d seen it.

“Okay, look. Here, can I pause this?” Mr. Mikaels nodded, and Jack pressed pause. “See, up here on the frame, there’s a mark. I can’t tell what it is on this screen, but do you see it?” Davey and Mr. Mikaels nodded. “So there’s the mark now...and then…” Jack let it play until it flipped and hit pause again. “There’s no mark on the top, and now it’s on the bottom. The frame flipped and the picture didn’t; that must be when they replaced it.”

“In under a second, like Dash from The Incredibles?”

“Pardon me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure videos aren’t that hard to edit.”

“Our security system is a closed circuit, nobody has access to it.”

Jack managed to keep his mouth shut, and Davey spoke up before it was hard, anyway.

“More intense security systems than yours have been hacked. It could have been an inside job, they could have paid a guard, they could just be very good with technology.” Davey was frowning thoughtfully at the screen, watching the loop over and over again. He obviously saw the flipping frame now, too, which was gratifying. Jack had thought he’d have to fight him on it. “I need a copy of this tape, please.”

Mr. Mikaels nodded.

“Of course, sir.”

“And the names of the security personnel working that night, as well as anybody with access to the museum at night without anybody questioning it. Cleaners, staff who work late, people like that.”

“Of course.”

“Were there any traveling artist’s exhibits here then?” Jack asked. He was pretty sure the answer was yes, there was some kind of sign going into the other room on the tape that wasn’t there anymore.

“Yes, there were, why?”

“Somebody painted the fake, and no offense, but it was probably somebody already making a living as an artist. Dave, you should get the names of the artists, too.”

“It was...Delancey. Brothers, there’s two of them,” Mr. Mikaels said. “They don’t have keys.”

“Did they come in here?”

“What?”

“Into your office? Your keys are hanging right there, especially if there’s two of them I’ll bet they could get them easily, and if they only needed them for one night, they could have just brought them back in the morning before you got in.”

“Sound like you’ve thought this through,” Mr. Mikaels frowned at him, almost suspiciously.

“I’m just thinking out loud,” Which was true. Stealing the keys had never been part of his plan. Albert was too good for that, and there was too high a margin for error when there were all the extra steps needed to get and return the keys.

“Why would they return the keys?”

“They didn’t just steal the painting, they replaced it. That means they didn’t want to get caught,” Davey said. “You’re positive the real one isn’t just in storage somewhere, though? Accusing somebody of stealing it isn’t something I’m willing to do before that’s checked.”

“I know where I keep my paintings, Agent Jacobs, Dancers in Pink is not in storage.”

“Obviously you don’t know where you keep them, since the real Dancers in Pink is missing,” Jack commented. “And Davey, we’re not accusing anyone yet.”

“Didn’t you just accuse those brothers?”

“No, I said they should be looked into, because they had opportunity. Same as you wanting the names of everyone who works here.”

“I think your work here is done, Jack,” Davey said, shooting him a look and tilting his head towards the door. “You don’t need to be here to do your job.”

“Back to being a quiet consultant, you got it,” Jack said, flipping his hand into a mock salute and leaving the room.

On his way out, he stopped in the gallery to look at his painting one more time.

It was an insult to his artistry that it was hanging so close to such a bad forgery.

His was perfect, nobody had batted an eye at it, and people were still filing past it, looking at it with the same wonder they would have looked at the real one with. The fake Degas didn’t evoke any of the emotion Jack knew it should. It should have made the little girls pose like ballerinas, turned people’s heads to look it, made people study the shadows and complex background, drawn people’s eyes.

Instead, people spared it a single glance, maybe ten seconds of their time, before moving onto the next painting on the wall, because it lacked that special quality it should have had.

Passion, attention to detail, grace.

Talent.

“Hey, Crutch, I have a new painting for you to look at and a name for you to run. Call me back when you get this,” Crutchie didn’t answer his phone, which probably meant he was doing his actual job, and would probably be grumpy later, because working as an offsite IT specialist meant he got a lot of really stupid questions.

Today had been an interesting development, thought, so hopefully that would cheer him up. He’d get to do some fun research on the Delancey brothers, and try to track down the real painting. He hadn’t had any luck with any of the other ones yet, but this one was probably a lot more recent, and paired with a name, that would make it easier.

And even without knowing anything about them, Jack was pretty sure the Delanceys had something to do with it. He knew at least half the museum employees, and he knew none of them had been part of Albert’s circles to help with his heist. So it made sense that an artist traveling through at the same time the painting was taken was involved.

Crutchie didn’t call back for a couple hours, and when he did, he spent at least ten minutes ranting about how stupid his clients were.

“They work for a tech company! And they don’t know how to clear their caches, reset their data, I spent two hours! Two goddamn hours! Explaining how to highlight, copy, and paste things from one Excell sheet into another! Control V, Jack! Control A, Control C, Control V! Two hours! And then he revealed he only wanted to copy it so he could fix a mistake he made in the name! So I could have just explained how to change the name of the original sheet and saved myself two goddamn hours!” Crutchie took a breath. “Anyway! How was your day? You said a new painting? And names?”

“Yeah, I went up to Nightengale to see my Dali hanging, and there’s a forged Degas there now. Same mistakes as the others.”

“And now you have an actual suspect?”

“Two of them. Brothers. I don’t know their first name, but their last name is Delancey.”

“Delancey.”

“Uh-huh. And they managed to mess with security footage. I only caught it because they put the frame back upside down.”

“Amateurs.”

“They edited the footage pretty good. But everyone but our very own Agent Jacobs could tell it was a fake as soon as they looked at it.”

“Bad brush strokes, wrong colors-”

“The background wasn’t even the right thing. It was the wrong color entirely. And the tutus. It’s real bad, Crutchie.”

“What’s the name of the painting?”

“Dancers in Pink. Degas.”

Crutchie hummed and typed the details in.

“I’ll call you if I get anything.”

“Thanks, love, you’re the best.”

“I know,” Crutchie said smugly, and he hung up.

Davey called Jack into his office the next morning, much earlier than usual.

“Morning, Dave!” He said cheerfully, taking in the two empty paper cups and the full mug of coffee. Combined with the look on Davey’s face, it was obvious he wasn’t a morning person. “Sun shining, birds chirping, and you still look so upset?”

“Shut up,” Davey said. “We’re going upstate.”

“Pardon?”

“We’re going upstate. Pack a bag and get ready.”

“You realize you could have called or texted me and I could have arrived here with a bag packed, ready to go?” Jack said, and he could even contain the laugh at the look Davey gave him. “It’s only seven am, Dave, how the hell did you survive high school?” Davey glared at him.

“Go get your bag packed.”

“Give me an hour. Where are we going?”

“Upstate. Three paintings were found.” Davey took the longest drink of coffee Jack had ever seen somebody take, and pointed at the door.

An hour and a half later, Jack had a small bag with enough outfits to last a few days and was sitting on a private jet across from Davey.

“So this is where my taxes go. Whole ass private jets to fly two people upstate.”

“It’s faster.”

“Also more expensive, and kind of pointless.”

Davey sighed and handed Jack a folder. This one only had pictures in it, no write-up at all.

“Three pictures in the same gallery,” He said. “All with the trademarks you pointed out.”

“Mm. I see.”

“They’ve pulled all the footage from all the nights they think the paintings may have gone missing, but haven’t been able to see anything wrong with it. I want you to look at it, since you spotted the thing on the Nightengale tape.”

“Did anything come out of that?”

“Not yet, no. But I want you to see if you can find anything on these tapes, and look at the paintings. It’s possible these have nothing to do with our guy.”

“Nah, it’s the same people.”

“You haven’t even seen the real ones yet,” Davey frowned at him.

“Don’t need to. Same brush patterns, paint choice, and I’m willing to bet same canvasses. And style.”

“You need to look at them up close anyway.”

“I will, but I can already see,” Jack held the pictures up close to his face, studying them. “That brings the total up to what, seven?”

“Yes.”

“Wild,” Jack said. Davey nodded absentmindedly, not saying anything.

It was a short plane ride.

And they didn’t even get pretzels.

And disappointment Jack felt about that, though, dissipated as soon as they were greeted by the gallery owner they were working with.

She looked upset, but was instantly smiling when she saw Jack.

“Jack Kelly! Get yourself down here and give me a hug!”

“Mama Medda!” Jack launched himself up the staircase she was standing on.

“Mr. Handsome FBI Agent didn’t tell me you were coming!”

“He didn’t tell me we’re visiting your gallery, either!”

“You two know each other?” Davey said, looking between them. He looked unimpressed.

“Jack Kelly is only the finest artist to ever bless my gallery with his work.”

Jack laughed.

“Don’t insult the classics like that, Mama, you know there’s more talent in the main showrooms than all my work combined.”

Medda’s had been the first professional gallery to show his work, his original work, before he’d even been a big name in the black market. And she’d practically adopted him, too, taking him into her home while he worked on the show that was still up in her gallery after all these years. Paintings had cycled in and out of it, some being sold and some he just didn’t like enough to show anymore, but he had a whole room full of just his artwork, and a bed to sleep in when he was in town.

Davey was frowning like he wasn’t exactly pleased with this apparently previously unknown development.

“Have you met?”

“We talked on the phone.”

“Well, Davey, let me introduce you to the most wonderful woman in the entire world, Miss Medda Larkin, gallery owner extraordinaire. Mama, this is Davey Jacobs, Special Agent Davey Jacobs.”

“Any friend of Jack’s has to be a friend of mine,” Medda smiled at Davey. “But why on Earth did you come to visit me on board an FBI jet? That seems like a rather sudden career change.”

“Aw, I’m just a consultant ‘cause of my artist’s expertise. I’m here to help.”

“I’m a little bit offended you aren’t just here to visit. It’s been too long.”

“I’ve been busy,” Jack defended himself. “And so have you! Didn’t you just expand?”

“Two new galleries! And we have plans to add a third story if business stays this good.”

“Really? That’d be awesome!”

“You’ll love the new rooms. Very open, and you’ll appreciate what I’ve got in them.”

“I can’t wait to see.”

“Well, why don’t I give you both a tour? All of this is new for Agent Jacobs, after all,” Medda’s southern charm didn’t really leave much room for any kind of argument, not that Jack wanted to. Davey looked a little more reluctant to follow her on a tour, but he did.

Ever the gentleman.

The new rooms were beautiful. One was full of bright, sharp modern art that really popped against the gray walls, drawing Jack’s eye immediately.

“Andrea! I knew she’d eventually come to you.”

“As soon as she saw this room she planned it all out.”

“It’s gorgeous.”

“Wait ‘till you see the other room. It isn’t open to the public yet; it’s still being set up,” Medda winked at him, and he laughed again.

This was going to be a lot more fun than the Nightengale museum.

Medda threw open the door to the other room dramatically, gesturing Jack inside.

“Oh, Mama, you can’t-”

“It’s already done, Jack, and besides, this room is perfect for it.”

His show was almost all the way hung up on the new, clean walls, organized exactly how he wanted it, some of his paintings hung in new frames that matched better, looking better than any of his shows ever had before. Employees he vaguely recognized from previous visits were working to hang up the rest of his pieces.

“People love your art, Jack, it’s only fair my best artist has the best room.”

Jack hugged her again, grinning.

“This is your art?” Davey stepped closer to the nearest painting, studying it.

It was a family portrait of him and his biological family, done more out of sentimentality than any kind of belief it would sell. He’d be reclaiming that one someday, when he had an apartment with enough wall space to justify it. It was pretty, though, he’d found a good balance between true realism and some kind of whimsical beauty. The light and shadows, that was what did it, making his mom’s hair and eyes especially shine and highlighting that they all stood together, in a kind of old-fashioned way, his dad with a hand on his wife and son’s shoulders while at the same time Jack had spent a long time getting the faces just right, so it showed how much they loved each other. A happy, together family.

He hoped, anyway, that’s what the painting was to him and he wasn’t entirely sure all of it came through.

“Is that you?” Davey asked, leaning in even closer.

“Me, Mamá, and Papá. Yeah,”

“You were little.”

“About seven,” Before his mom died and his life started to fall apart at the seams. “I painted it like four years ago, though.” He shrugged.

“Huh,” Davey stepped back and looked around the rest of the room. “Where are the counterfit paintings, ma’am?” He asked, suddenly all back to business.

“In the lower foyer. Right this way,” Medda led them back out across the main hall, into the only room she hadn’t shown them yet.

Like at the Nightengale museum, it was easy to spot the fakes.

Three Picasso’s in a row.

They weren’t as bad as the others, thought that was probably because Picasso wasn’t as soft of a painter as Degas or Monet or any of the others. There were more hard angles, less delicate colors and brush strokes.

And still, they weren’t that convincing.

Maybe to somebody who hadn’t spent hours, years, even, studying artists and their work, they’d be convincing. Maybe even to somebody who’d simply never forged a Picasso they’d be convincing.

But to Jack they stuck out like a sore thumb.

An ugly, angular sore thumb.

They weren’t even great painting to begin with, not Picasso’s best work, in Jack’s opinion. The forgeries just made them worse.

“When did this happen, Mama?” Jack stepped closer to the nearest fake painting.

“Recently. They were in storage while the addition was still under construction, and they went in real. We just hung them out again two days ago, and they were real then, too.”

“And you reported it yesterday.”

“That was when we noticed. We called you because we don’t have any footage of anyone coming in, the local police couldn’t do anything, and we know the FBI works on art crime sometimes, especially when it’s a forgery.”

“So you believe they were switched sometime in the last two days?”

“I know so, Agent Jacobs. They were authenticated before we hung them.”

“And these have no chance of passing an authetication,” Jack said. “I garuntee they were switched in the last two days if they were authenticated three days ago.”

“Has anybody been here who had the opportunity to make the switch?”

Medda laughed.

“Oh, darling, so many people have been in and out I can’t even list all their names. There’s a party here in two days, for everyone who has work here and everyone who sponsers and artist who has work here, and everyone who sponser the gallery itself, for that matter. Artists have been in and out for two weeks making sure any show they have hanging is perfect. Not to mention party planners, interior designers, and the architects who want to design the third floor if I decide to do that.”

“That’s already in two days?”

“I was going to call and remind you, sweetie, I knew you would forget,” Medda smiled at Jack before turning back to Davey. “I can try to find all the names I’m sure you want, but the list won’t be perfect.”

“Mama, can I see a list of all the artists invited?”

“Want to see what friends will be there?” Davey said, slightly sarcastically, like he thought maybe Jack was getting distracted from the reason they were there in the first place.

“Well, yeah, since we’ll probably be here for the party anyway. At least I will be, since I’m invited. But also, we can check and see if any names from the Nightengale lists come up on this one. Didn’t we decide it’s probably an artist?”

“Yes, but the artist may not being making the switch themself.”

“They’d still want to see their own work, probably. All artist’s are self-centered at heart, it why so many paint self portraits.”

“I’ll get you both the lists you need. And you’ll both have full access to the entire gallery for as long as you need it. I don’t have many classics, I’d like to get mine back!”

“Miss Medda! Kyle and Evan are looking for you,” Another employee came into the room, and Medda nodded at her.

“I’ll be right there,” She looked back at Jack and Davey. “You two do whatever you need to do. “Feel free to come for dinner tonight, too. You know I love company.”

When she’d left the room, Davey stepped closer to another one of the paintings.

“You’re sure these are by the same person?”

“Positive,” Jack reached up to touch the painting and pulled his hand away frowning. “It’s still wet.”

“What?”

Jack extended his hand and showed Davey the reddish brown smudge that had come off on his hand.

“Not super wet. With layers this thick...maybe two days old at most, but I’d bet this last layer was added even more recently. Yesterday. It’s mostly dry, like here, see,” Jack touched another corner of the painting and his hand came away clean. “But the more detailed parts,with more paint, are still a little wet. Just as recent as Mama Medda said. Bet whoever did it is still around.”

“That would seem likely,” Davey said frowning.

“And probably is coming to the party,” Jack grinned, watching Davey process. “So wouldn’t staying make sense?”

“I suppose.”

“It’ll be fun! You can meet all my friends from the art world, attach a mic to me and listen to everything I say, interrogate people without them realizing, all those fun things!”

“You watch too many cop shows.”

“Maybe so. But I have a feeling you don’t go to enough parties.”

Davey sighed.

“Fine. If you think the forger will be at the party, we’ll stay until the party.”

“Better make sure you have nice clothes then, Dave, ‘cause this is a classy event,” Jack’s grin widened in excitement.

Investigating at Medda’s gallery, going to the artists’ party, dragging Davey to a party.

Yeah. This was a lot more fun than Nightengale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey hey look at me updating a WIP in a not untimely manner!
> 
> As always, I'm Asper, I'm gay, and I thrive off of attention so please leave a comment! Also come hang out on Tumblr @enby-crutchie!


	3. Chapter 3

Medda’s gallery was positively glowing on the night of the party. Fairy lights stretched through the building, giving everything a dim glow. Windows and doors were thrown open to let the cool night air flow through while people dressed up in their nicest clothes wandered through, talking quietly.

The whole building buzzed with quiet, excited energy as everyone involved with the gallery wandered through. It was the kind of party that made everyone feel like they were living back in time, even while they took selfies together and posted on social media.

“We aren’t here to have fun,” Davey reminded Jack, straightening his tie.

“Maybe you aren’t. I haven’t seen half these people in a year, and I have a brand new gallery show up over there. Tonight’s gonna be the most fun I’ve had in a while.” Jack grinned at him, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “You need to loosen up, Dave. It’s a party, relax, have fun!”

“We’re here on an investigation-”

“And it’s a party. Have a drink. Flirt with somebody cute. You’ll get more information being the charming man I’m sure you can be than being Mr. Stiff FBI Agent.”

“My tech-”

“Your technique with me was to drag me into an orange room and talk at me until I said something useful. There’s no orange room here, and nobody likes to feel interrogated.”

“Show me how you do, if you’re such an expert.”

“I’m an artist, Davey, I network. I chat. I gather information. I’m an expert schmoozer, and that’s what you need at a party. Not an expert interrogator.” Jack leaned forward and tugged at Davey’s tie, loosening it. “So relax. I’ll get you information, and you just enjoy the party.”

“Don’t touch me,” Davey said stiffly.

“I didn’t touch you, I touched your tie.” Jack grinned again. “You look better like that. Less uptight.”

He still looked out of place. He was holding himself far too tensely, his shoulders rolled back and held in a weird posture, and he was already fixing his tie again. He was standing at his full height of tall, and just really looked like he didn’t want to be there.

“For real, Davey. Loosen the tie. Unbutton the blazer. Relax. You look like a cop, and no criminal is going to want to tell you anything while you look like a cop. You need to relax.” Jack shook out his arms and rolled his head back. “Let’s dance.”

“Excuse me?”

“There’s music playing, people are dancing, and you need to relax. So let’s dance.” Jack offered Davey his hand. Davey rolled his eyes but took his hand, letting Jack drag him out to the dance floor.

He was a horrible dancer. He was trying to lead but had no idea what he was doing, stepping on Jack’s feet and constantly looking down. After a few literally painful counts, Jack sighed and moved Davey’s hands from his waist to around his neck.

“Let me lead, why dontcha?”

“I’m-”

“A bad dancer? Yes, yes you are.” Jack started to move in time with the music, dragging Davey along with him to the beat. “Seems like a hole in your education to me,” he said, spinning Davey out and laughing at the look on his face.

“Don’t do that again.”

“Why not? You’re cute when you’re dizzy.”

He was more relaxed now, anyway. Or angrier. Probably both. He was not a big fan of Jack having control over anything, especially not Davey’s own movement. But his shoulders had relaxed, and he looked a bit more comfortable.

And he was pretty cute when he was dizzy.

Jack shook that thought away before it could any further. Davey was, objectively, attractive. Cute, though, cute meant some kind of attachment, and Jack could not afford the kind of attachment cute implied. Not when Davey was investigating him for crimes that could land him in prison for a long time, that he’d actually done, and not when he had a habit of throwing himself head over heels into relationships and falling way too far, way too fast.

“Now you look tense,” Davey pointed out.

“I’m trying desperately to not fall in love with you. It’s hard.” Jack forced a smile and tried to force away the thoughts about how the fairy lights up on the upper-level railings were casting soft shadows on Davey’s face and how he was actually smiling a little bit now, and how as he relaxed, he got better at dancing.

He was still bad, but at least now he was counting and not stepping on Jack every two seconds.

When the song ended, Davey let go of Jack, and Jack watched him compose himself, rearranging his face back into its normal deadpan expression and straightening his tie and jacket.

Jack opened his mouth to tell him to relax again, but the glare it earned him shut him up.

“Jack Kelly!” somebody called from the next level up. Jack spun, trying to see who was standing on the balcony above them.

“Who is that?”

“Can’t see. Somebody friendly.”

Jack suddenly felt himself pulled backward, almost to the ground, by somebody jumping onto his back.

“Hello!” They practically shouted in Jack’s ear.

“Hello! Who is this!”

The person let go and jumped in front of Jack, arms open.

“Romeo!”

“Jack!”

“How’d you get invited?”

“Cause I’m only Mama Medda’s favorite artist.”

“Identity theft is not a joke, Romeo, that title belongs to me.”

“I didn’t know you had a hot boyfriend.”

“He’s-”

“I’m not his boyfriend.”

Romeo tilted his head, studying Davey.

“Wanna be mine?”

“No, thank you.” Davey frowned.

“You’d break Crutchie’s heart, Rome.”

“Aw, shut up.”

“Are you going to introduce us?” Davey said dryly.

“Davey, Romeo, Romeo, Davey. Romeo is an abstract artist whom I love, and Davey is an FBI agent, previously investigating me for art theft, currently employing my ever so incredible skill set to track down some art forgers.”

Romeo, who was, in fact, an abstract artist who happened to also be a fence on the side, looked at Davey in a new light.

“FBI agent, huh? What’s your specialty?”

“White collar crime.”

“Like Mavis’s outfit?” Romeo pulled Jack’s shoulders around and pointed at a man across the room.

“Oof. That’s...a white collar alright.”

“He looks like he’s cosplaying Shakespeare.”

“You’d think that’d be your job.”

“You’d think so.” Romeo laughed. “But apparently not.”

“I don’t know, I think he can pull it off.”

“I think he should pull it off. Throw it away. Burn it maybe.”

“I think you’re just jealous you couldn’t break out your collar.”

“You know it.” Romeo leaned into Jack’s side, an arm around his waist. “Wanna dance with me, Jacky? I wanna dance. Weren’t you supposed to bring Crutchie this year?”

“I forgot this party was happening. I’m sure I’ll get an earful from him as soon as he realizes it was tonight.”

“I’ll call him right now.”

“Don’t you dare, I need to stay on his good side until my birthday. I want that cake.”

Romeo laughed and pulled Jack by the hand out to the dance floor.

“So, you turned fed on ‘em, huh?” He said as soon they were far enough away from Davey.

“For now. I’m a consultant, how fancy is that?”

“A consultant? On your own case?”

“God I wish,” Jack laughed. “Spot would write a book about me then. Nah, some other case. Some guys they think have done more than me.”

“Have they?”

“What do you think, Rome? I’m just so good they don’t have accurate numbers on me.”

“What’s your total?”

“Over ninety. They’ve caught five. These guys have gotten caught for seven, and I’m almost positive that’s all they’ve done. The Picassos in the front room are three of them, and they’re all really bad. One of them they thought was mine.”

“And the hot FBI agent hired you?”

“To use my connections to solve the case. Seven in two months warrants more concern than five in two years.”

“Even though it’s actually over ninety in ten years?”

“They don’t know that. And they won’t.”

“I won’t tell, Jacky, I’ve made my share of money off your little side business.”

Jack snorted.

“Ninety forgeries in ten years. You know how many originals I’ve sold in that time?”

“Five thousand because you’re amazing and the whole world knows it.”

“Thirty-one. Plus a shit-ton of commissioned copies, but only thirty-one originals. And the most one sold for was two thousand, but compared to my forgeries? Shit, Rome, the cheapest forgery I’ve done was twenty-three thousand. It’s hardly a side job.”

“You’ve gotta be worth millions by now.”

“A few, yeah. All in money I can’t actually spend in one place while the FBI is still watching me. It’s pretty nice to not have to worry too much about rent, though.”

“Still in the studio?”

“You know it. Still a mess, too. Some things never change.”

“Remember the pigeon?”

“Ugh, yeah. That’s never happened again, thank god.”

“That was hilarious.”

“You didn’t have to clean up the shit.”

Romeo laughed.

“I took care of your lizard that once time. He’s pretty gross.”

“Palio is the highest of beings and I love him.”

For a few songs, Jack and Romeo danced and talked, catching up on all the things they’d missed in each other’s lives since the last time they’d seen each other.

“So what’s up with the case they have you on?” Romeo finally asked, and Jack watched him slip from the brightly exuberant artist’s persona he normally kept up into his fence side, eyes glinting and looking very interested in Jack’s answer.

“Seven paintings. Three Picassos, a Renoir, a Monet, a Degas, and a Tintoretto. They’re all terrible, no understanding of color or movement or shading or what makes an artist special. I’m pretty sure it’s two guys, brothers-”

“Oscar and Morris Delancey,” Romeo said rolling his eyes. “They tried to get me to fence stuff for them.”

“Really?” Jack felt his eyes light up. “What can you tell me about them?”

“They’re bullies and idiots. Came from California, their original art doesn’t have any traction so they took up forging, but that isn’t any good either. I wasn’t willing to fence anything with as bad of a copy as they could give me. You’ve spoiled me, Jacky.”

“But you know them?”

“Sure. Kind of. They don’t like me much, since I said no to them. Pretty sure they went into business with some skeeves out in Colorado.”

“Wanna send me some stuff?”

“Sure. I’ll see what Specs can get on ‘em, too, they usually know more details than I do.” Romeo’s eyes lit up and he spun Jack out, pointing at somebody across the room. “But that’s one of them right there. They don’t know that I’m the one they contacted, but that’s Oscar.”

“The greasy one?”

“With the weird haircut. Yeah. I’ll bet you can get something out of him yourself. Cowboy.”

“Hush. Who knows how many other people here know that name.”

“Only people who probably already know you’re him.” Romeo grinned and dropped Jack’s hands, disappearing into the crowd with a wave. Jack shook his head and looked around the room, trying to find Davey again.

He wasn’t hard to spot, leaning against a wall and sipping at a glass of punch. It was impossible to sneak up on him where he was, so Jack settled on strolling up to him casually.

“Did your date leave you behind already?”

“Just a friend, Dave, no need to be jealous. He’s practically dating my brother.”

“You don’t have a brother.” Davey tilted his head like he’d caught Jack in a lie.

“Not all family is blood family, Davey, Crutchie is my brother even if he isn’t listed on my background check. And he and Romeo have been flirting for like, two years.”

“Who’s Crutchie?”

“My brother. Runs IT for some big insurance company I think, I dunno what the company actually does. He’s super smart.”

“Why do you know an IT guy?”

Because in Jack’s one and only personal foray into the dark web Crutchie had hacked his computer, seen he was trying to sell stolen artwork, set him up with Spot and Race, and told him he’d do all the tech stuff for him for a cut of the profits and if Jack changed all his passwords and stopped storing all his information in files on the same laptop he used to email his friends and log onto Facebook. It had been terrifying, was hilarious looking back, and wasn’t a story he would ever be telling Davey.

“Why not? We live in New York City, Davey, it’s not exactly hard to meet some pretty random people.”

Davey tilted his head in acknowledgement.

“Are you done messing around? We have a job to do, Jack.”

“Sometimes, Davey, having fun is the best way to get stuff done. I have another dance partner to woo, and hopefully, get some information out of.” Jack grinned, throwing an arm around Davey shoulders and turning him to look at the man Romeo had pointed out. “Oscar Delancey. My personal prime suspect, and looking like he needs a dance.”

“Who?”

“The tall one in navy. Looks like he’d send you dick pics and expect you to say thanks. Gross little man bun.”

“Ah. What’s your plan?”

“Ask him to dance. Get him to tell me what’s up.” Jack shrugged. “I don’t plan, Dave, I just throw spaghetti at the wall and see what sticks.”

“That’s...not how an investigation works.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Dave, but I’ve been on this case for less time and gotten more done than anyone working on it at the FBI. So let me do it my way, yeah?” Jack dropped his arm off Davey’s shoulder and smiled. “I’ll tell you what I find out.”

Davey shook his head, but let Jack go.

“Hey there,” Jack said easily, picking a glass from the table Oscar was standing next to.

“Hello.”

“Nice party, huh?”

“Sure.”

“I’m Jack. Jack Kelly.” Jack grinned and took a sip, having to work very hard to not pull a face at the alcohol.

He didn’t understand how people drank wine for fun. It was bitter and gross.

Oscar looked up from his own drink, and Jack was hit with a whiff of stale alcohol.

So he was drunk. Easier to get him to talk, maybe, but potentially a much less fun conversation.

“Jack Kelly?”

“That’s me!”

Tipsy.

“Saw your work upstairs.”

“It just got moved in. Doesn’t the display look nice?”

“It does. I’m Oscar. Delancey.”

“Nice to meet you. Do you have work here?” Jack watched his posture shift. His shoulders went back and a quick smiled flashed across his face as he glanced towards the front room where the three forgeries were hung.

Jack knew that look well. That was the look he got every time Davey was _so close_ to getting something right, to connecting the last dot, but he hadn’t quite gotten there. Cocky pride.

Only Jack deserved it. This guy didn’t.

“A few paintings.”

“Those Picassos?” Jack leaned in close and whispered. “I noticed those when I came in. Nobody’s even noticed.”

“Noticed what?” There was that undeserved cocky smile again.

Noticed what. As if his forgeries were good enough to hang unnoticed. Like he was talented enough to not be noticed. Fuck that.

It took more self-restraint than Jack was really willing to admit to not say any of his thoughts out loud and instead force a smile.

“I’ve studied the classics for years. Those aren’t real Picassos. I’ve heard your name floating around out there, You and your brother, right? I was hoping I’d run into at least one of you.”

“You’ve heard of us?”

“Sure. Degas. Monet. Renoir. Picasso. An impressive portfolio.”

“I don’t sell copies.”

“Not legally. C’mon, Oscar, we all know plenty of people here make their real money on the side. Art doesn't always keep food on the table.”

“And how would you know that?”

“I’m an artist, Oscar, I’ve been around the art circles for years. Even those of us not involved know it happens.”

This was where he had to strike a careful balance. Hinting at his own criminal activity but never admitting it, because if he let Oscar know for sure he was in on the business, he’d get taken down at the same time as Oscar and his brother. He needed to get Oscar to trust him, but not reveal too much about himself.

And only use details about his own case that Davey had revealed to him in interrogations, so Jack could claim to be pretending to be an art thief for clout if Oscar tried to rat him out.

“If you’re not involved why do you care?”

“I’m involved in the art world, and so it has something to do with me.” Jack took another sip of wine. “It’s impressive work. How much was it worth?”

Oscar shrugged, looking around.

“You don’t know they’re mine.”

“Don’t I?” Jack offered a bright smile.

He was drunk, it shouldn’t take so long to get him to talk. There’s no way he was a good enough criminal to not break while drunk.

“Not for sure.”

“Maybe I know more than you think. I’m...pretty involved in the art world.”

C’mon, Oscar, take the goddamn hint.

“As involved as I am?”

There it was.

“If not more.”

“Nobody’s more involved than Morris and me.” Oscar grinned again, that same overconfident smile he’d gotten as soon as Jack mentioned the Picassos.

“As far as you know.”

Ninety-four in ten years and only five caught versus seven in two months and all caught. Fuck this guy and his completely unmerited overconfidence.

“I do know.”

“So how much was it worth? A hundred grand a piece? Probably more since they’re all together, right?”

“Almost four million,” Oscar whispered, leaning in close. Jack had to lean away from him to escape the strong smell of alcohol radiating off him.

Maybe he was more than tipsy, with how bad that smelled.

And almost four million? For three bad forgeries? Who the fuck would pay almost four million for those?

“Wow.”

“The Spider pays well.” Oscar grinned conspiratorially at Jack and leaned in close again. “Wanna go into business with us?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re an artist. You could make a lot of money.”

“Depends. Who’s the Spider?”

Jack had heard the name floating around a few times. He was one of the clients nobody he knew liked to work for, with high demands and hard deadlines. He paid well, but he’d never approached Jack and even if he had, with what he’d heard he probably would have turned it down.

His art, his terms, even if somebody was paying for forgeries.

But the deadlines might explain why the brothers’ forgeries were so bad. From what Jack had heard, the Spider wouldn’t ever let him take longer a month to get a copy just right, which would probably lead to fuzzy details and poorly research.

“Somebody rich. He doesn’t let people know who he really is.” Oscar grinned at Jack. “But you’d be rich.”

“How do you know I’m not already?”

“Who’s heard of Jack Kelly? Nobody. Not rich.” Oscar’s grin shifted into more of a smirk and Jack tensed.

Who’s heard of Jack Kelly? Plenty of people. And besides that, who’s heard of Monet? Dali? Degas? Michelangelo? Donatello? DaVinci? Manet? Picasso? The entire world, that’s who. And how many people had walked through museums and seen Jack’s work? How many had seen his paintings and not even known they were his because of how good they were? How many had cried at his copy of Monet’s bridges, had had to pause in front of his Dali to admire the smooth realism? Hundreds, if not thousands, of people, that’s who.

Jack Kelly might not be a household name for his original artwork, but he had more talent in his pinky finger than Oscar fucking Delancey did in his entire body.

Fuck him.

Jack inhaled slowly and exhaled through his nose.

Now was not a good time to get pissy with him. Now was a good time to kiss ass and hope he’d give up more information without Jack having to get in over his head with the Spider.

“Got me there,” Jack said stiffly, hoping the amount of alcohol Oscar had drunk would keep him from noticing Jack’s less than subtle anger. “What would business with you look like?”

“Me an’ my brother take what the Spider gives us. Pays well, we paint what he wants and make the swaps.” Oscar narrowed his eyes and studied Jack’s face. “You won’t tell nobody all that.”

“Oh, never,” Jack promised.

Oh, it was going to feel so good to get these guys caught and break that promise.

“The Spider already told us he knows what he wants next. You want in?”

No, Jack did not want in. He was just fine in exactly the operations he was currently involved in.

But getting involved would mean having a lot more evidence than a drunken confession.

And if Jack had to forge a painting, he could act like it was really hard and produce a bad copy that didn’t compare to his real ones. Still better than the Delancey brothers’ forgeries, that was a point of pride, but worse than the ones Davey was investigating.

“I’ll have to think about it,” Jack said, glancing back to where Davey was still standing. “But consider this a hard maybe.”

A slow, sleazy smile spread across Oscar’s face.

“I’ll give you my number. Call me when you’re ready to make millions.”

God, he sounded like he thought he was the backstory to a James Bond villain.

Jack forced a smile and opened his phone, letting Oscar take it to put his number in.

“Enjoy your night,” Oscar said giving Jack a little wave as he walked away.

Yuck.

“Having fun?” Davey said dryly when Jack came back to his side of the room.

“Not particularly.” Jack put his almost full wine glass down. “But I got sort of a confession.”

“Sort of?”

“He’s pretty drunk. And I really don’t like him. But he kind of confessed and also invited me to go into business with him and his brother. And I got the alias of the guy paying them.”

“In a five-minute conversation?”

“I told you, I’m an expert schmoozer. And he’s drunk.”

Davey looked across the room at Oscar, frowning.

“Invited you to go into business?”

“Asked me if I wanted in and gave me his number.” Jack shrugged. “I said maybe.”

“You said maybe?” Davey tilted his head at Jack.

“Sure. I figured it’d be easy to prove they did it if they think I’m doing it, too. An undercover operation.” Jack grinned. “That’d be fun.”

“Fun.”

“Did you forget how to carry on a conversation? Because you’ve just been repeating me for the last few sentences.”

“I can’t believe you.”

“What? I got a confession and a definite way to get evidence.”

“You got invited to join an art forgery ring!”

“Yeah, and?”

“And that’s illegal.”

“So?”

“So you can’t just decide to run an undercover operation, especially one that involves illegal activity!”

“So we’ll talk to your supervisors! Davey, we’ve just been handed a way to nail these guys, and your concern is logistics? No wonder you can’t catch your other forger.” Jack shook his head.

“I know it’s you.”

“Then why is there no evidence? Do you really want to have this fight here, Davey? You haven’t won it once. If you want to catch an art thief, what better way than to become an art thief?”

“I hired you for that.”

“And I’m not an art thief, but I could be, if you let me. Look, you can supervise everything. I’ll make the paintings in your office, if you want. You can take pictures and document them thoroughly so it’s obvious what I did, so I’ll never get away with selling them for real.” Jack offered, and he could practically see Davey thinking.

On the one hand, Jack was right. It would be a good way to collect hard evidence of Oscar and Morris Delancey forging art. And possibly kill two birds with one stone and identify the man funding the art theft in the first place.

On the other, letting Jack join Oscar and Morris even under supervision would be willingly putting Jack into the very circles Davey was trying to prove he was already a part of.

Ooh, if Davey let Jack do this, Jack would have an excuse to know a lot more than he currently could. People, logistics, how stuff really worked that he wad to pretend to be completely ignorant of right now.

“I’ll talk to my supervisors,” Davey finally said.

“Cool.” Jack grinned at him and offered a hand. “Want to dance?”

“Do you know how many people have asked me how long we’ve been together already?”

“And does that offend you, Davey?”

“I could do so much better than you.”

“Nah. I’m the cream of the crop, Dave, the best this world has to offer. Hottest person in this room, present company excluded.” Jack’s smile widened at the face Davey made. “Nobody could do better than me. If you’re dating me, you’re dating the best.”

“You are insufferable.”

“Oh, but you love me so, don’t you, Davey darling?” Jack couldn’t help but laugh when Davey swatted him away and glared at him. “Why can’t we be friends?”

“Because you’re awful.”

“Only a little.”

Davey rolled his eyes and turned away, scanning the room and avoiding Jack’s eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh shit? Me? Updating Art and Hearts? Somehow, yeah!
> 
> The thing with this fic is that it's deffo a pet project. I'm writing it because I love the idea and the dynamic, so I don't want to force it and sticking to a schedule with it is hard because of that! I'm glad so many other people love it as much as I do, but it will probably continue to be updated a bit sporadically because of how much work it is to get it as good as I want it to be!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey it's ten thirty and I have two concerts this week, have no idea what I'm doing in physics, and should be doing something about either of those things like you know, practicing my music or learning how to do Second Law problems, but instead I'm writing an AU that's just an excuse to write Jack as an arrogant asshole who secretly has a heart of gold, because that what I do! I'm a big gay mess folks!
> 
> If you haven't left Tumblr because of the apocalypse currently going down over there, my url is @enby-crutchie, and I'd love if you would join me in my gay adventures into the world of being obsessed with one thing at a time for several weeks at a time, it's pretty fun.
> 
> If not, please leave a comment and a kudo! Especially on multi-chap fics, sometimes motivation is hard to find and one nice comment makes it easier!
> 
> As always, I'm Asper, I'm gay, and I love newsies, please come be my friend!


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